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Saturday, January 07, 2006

I have officially applied to West Chester university. Now I quake in fear of the upcoming audition and conference. Damn it, I don't even have a piano to practice on at the moment, and one of the audition requirements is piano competency. I don't have enough compositions, either, I don't think. Gah.

The last few days, I've been getting the urge to rant. For example, tonight Matt and I saw The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe (thanks to Patrick for his Christmas gift of a free movie ticket) and I ranted audibly at the mindless babbling twats who bolted out of their seats at the first sign of the credits. The lights hadn't come up yet, and after the first wave of names, just as most of the tard brigade were stumbling stupidly into the aisles, lo and behold, there was more footage. Of course, the dipshits who apparently have some sort of mortal allergy to film credits stopped in their places to stare slack-jawed at the screen, obscuring the view for the clever people who had remained seated. "Sit down!" I yelled. They were lucky I didn't swear at them. It would have served them right for coming to a PG movie which by rights should have been drenched with blood, but was conspicuously and distractingly bloodless. Someone needs to figure out a way to turn on the gore in the Narnia series.

I also started a rant last night as Matt was trying to sleep. It was sparked by a commercial for some awful reality show about quitting cold turkey. (Surely we have sunk to the bottom of the reality cesspool when we are watching people quit smoking on television. Jesus fucking Christ. What's next? Blow-by-blow accounts of ingrown toenail recovery?) Between dynamic images of no smoking signs, some wide-eyed woman plaintively explained that she wanted to save the precious, precious lives of smokers. Here's a hint, lady: nobody in this country is unaware that smoking kills. People who are smoking get what they deserve. I say this as an occasional smoker - I bloody well know that every time I puff on a cigarette, I'm rotting my lungs, but I do it anyway. Come at it from the perspective of lowering health insurance premiums, sure, but saving their lives? Maybe you should concentrate on saving the lives of people who are painfully having their lives taken away from them entirely against their will. Take the goddamn millions of dollars you are spending on your shitty reality series about tobacco-sucking fatties and use it to save people in fucking Zimbabwe or Congo.

I'm even reading rants. A few minutes ago, I finished J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey, which is really a rather beautiful book, more like an extended short story. It struck internal chords a ridiculous number of times throughout. I can't decide if I identify more with Franny or Zooey.
"Somewhere along the line -- in one damn incarnation or another, if you like -- you not only had a hankering to be an actor or an actress but to be a good one. You're stuck with it now. You can't just walk out on the results of your own hankerings. Cause and effect, buddy, cause and effect. The only think you can do now, the only religious thing you can do, is act. Act for God, if you want to -- be God's actress, if you want to. What could be prettier? You can at least try to, if you want to -- there's nothing wrong in trying. You'd better get busy, though, buddy. The goddam sands run out on you every time you turn around. I know what I'm talking about. You're lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world. I used to worry about that. I don't worry about it very much any more. At least I'm still in love with Yorick's skull. At least I always have time enough to stay in love with Yorick's skull. I want an honorable goddam skull when I'm dead, buddy. I hanker after an honorable goddam skull like Yorick's. And so do you, Franny Glass. So do you, so do you.... Ah, God, what's the use of talking? You had the exact same goddam freakish upbringing I did, and if you don't know by this time what kind of skull you want when you're dead, and what you have to do to earn it -- I mean if you don't at least know by this time that if you're an actress you're supposed to act, then what's the use of talking?"
Much of the book is dialogue (I wish Zooey were a girl. I'd adapt large swathes of it into a kickarse audition monologue.) which makes me think it ought to be a play. Then again, about halfway through, I got the distinct feeling that Wes Anderson swiped large parts of The Royal Tenenbaums from this book.

[edit] Aha! Wiki confirms my suspicions!

Matt sent me the picture at the right, from a Fark page. I find it hilarious, even though I'm fairly sure that's not how you spell 'fhtagn.'

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